Chapter 3: When the World Starts Chasing You
Lucien Veyr ran.
Not blindly.
Not in panic.
He ran the way someone did when they understood exactly what was behind them and what would happen if they slowed down.
Branches tore at his coat as he pushed deeper into the forest, boots striking damp earth in a steady rhythm. His breathing remained even, controlled, despite the burn creeping into his muscles. He kept his mana output low—dangerously low—just enough to reinforce his body without leaving a trail that trained mages could follow easily.
Behind him, the ruined road burned.
The smell of blood and scorched mana hung thick in the night air, drifting between the trees like a warning.
Lucien didn't look back.
He didn't need to.
He already knew how this would go.
By dawn, patrols would arrive.
By noon, investigators.
By nightfall, someone important would decide that Lucien Veyr was no longer a man—but a problem.
And problems were solved, not questioned.
A low growl echoed through the forest.
Lucien slowed instantly, dropping into a crouch behind a fallen tree. His silver-gray eyes scanned the darkness, senses stretching outward.
Monster territory, he realized. Unclaimed.
Unlucky.
Then again—luck had never meant safety for him.
Two shapes emerged from between the trees.
Direwolves.
Larger than normal wolves, their frames thick with muscle, fur matted and dark. Faint traces of corrupted mana clung to their claws and fangs, marking them as creatures that had fed on magical remains.
Their yellow eyes locked onto Lucien.
He exhaled softly.
No witnesses. No reason to hold back too much.
The first wolf lunged.
Lucien stepped aside, twisting his body just enough that the creature's momentum carried it past him. His hand snapped out, fingers striking a nerve cluster behind its jaw. A precise surge of wind mana followed—compressed, silent.
The wolf collapsed mid-air, neck broken before it hit the ground.
The second wolf skidded to a halt, confused.
Luck intervened.
A root snapped beneath its paw.
The wolf stumbled, and Lucien was already there.
One clean strike.
One controlled release of force.
Silence returned to the forest.
Lucien wiped blood from his blade and moved on.
He didn't stop running until the first hints of dawn crept through the canopy.
By morning, the forest revealed itself for what it truly was.
Not wilderness.
A graveyard.
Broken weapons lay half-buried beneath leaves. Old bones jutted from shallow pits. Mana scars—faint distortions in the air—marked places where spells had gone catastrophically wrong long ago.
Lucien slowed his pace, frowning.
"This close to the border…" he murmured.
That explained the monsters.
And something else.
He felt it again—that subtle pull in his chest, the uncomfortable tightening that meant luck was aligning toward something whether he wanted it or not.
Lucien cursed quietly.
He followed the sensation reluctantly, weaving through dense undergrowth until the trees thinned abruptly.
Before him lay ruins.
Ancient stone pillars jutted from the earth at odd angles, cracked and weathered by centuries of neglect. A circular structure dominated the center, its floor etched with faded runes that still pulsed faintly with dormant mana.
A ruin.
A bad one.
Lucien's instincts screamed at him to turn around.
Luck pushed him forward anyway.
"…You're joking," he muttered.
He stepped closer.
The moment his boot crossed the boundary of the circle, the runes flared.
The world shifted.
Lucien felt gravity twist sideways as the ground vanished beneath him.
He fell.
He landed hard, rolling instinctively as stone scraped against his back. The air knocked from his lungs in a sharp gasp.
Lucien groaned and pushed himself upright.
He was no longer in the forest.
The chamber around him was vast and circular, its ceiling lost in darkness far above. Pale crystals embedded in the walls emitted a dim, bluish glow, illuminating rows of stone statues lining the perimeter.
They were humanoid.
Armed.
Watching.
Lucien tensed.
"…Dungeon," he said flatly.
A voice echoed through the chamber.
"Trial initiated."
Lucien closed his eyes.
Of course.
The floor trembled as one of the statues moved.
Stone cracked. Dust fell.
The statue stepped down from its pedestal, eyes igniting with artificial mana.
A Guardian Construct.
High-tier.
Lucien adjusted his grip on his sword.
"Alright," he said quietly. "Let's get this over with."
The construct charged.
Lucien met it head-on.
He ducked beneath a sweeping stone arm, sliding across the floor as he slashed upward. His blade struck a joint—but failed to penetrate fully.
Too hard.
The construct countered instantly, bringing its other arm down in a crushing blow.
Lucien braced.
Earth mana surged through his legs—not enough to draw attention, but enough to anchor him. The blow struck, sending cracks spiderwebbing across the stone floor.
Lucien rolled free before the construct could follow up.
I can't fight this normally, he assessed. Not without revealing too much.
Luck stirred.
The construct stepped forward—and its foot came down on a fractured tile.
The floor gave way.
The construct dropped halfway into a lower level, its movement stalling.
Lucien didn't hesitate.
He leapt, channeling wind mana into his legs and blade simultaneously. The strike was precise, angled perfectly to sever the core conduit exposed by the collapse.
The construct froze.
Then shattered.
Lucien landed lightly, breathing steadily.
The chamber fell silent.
A new voice echoed.
"Trial completed."
"Reward granted."
A small pedestal rose from the center of the chamber, bearing a single object.
A ring.
Simple. Silver. Unadorned.
Lucien stared at it warily.
"…No," he said.
Luck pulsed insistently.
Lucien walked over and picked it up.
The moment his fingers closed around it, a faint warmth spread through his hand.
A whisper brushed against his mind—not words, but approval.
Lucien slipped the ring into his pocket without putting it on.
"I'm not thanking you," he muttered to the empty chamber.
The floor shifted again, and a staircase emerged, leading upward.
Lucien ascended cautiously.
When he emerged back into the forest, the ruins were gone.
In their place stood only trees and broken stone.
Lucien exhaled slowly.
"…Great."
By the time he reached a ridgeline overlooking the valley, smoke was rising in the distance.
Not from the road.
From the nearby town.
Lucien's heart sank.
He scanned the horizon, eyes narrowing.
Banners flew above the rooftops—black and gold.
Not kingdom colors.
Church.
Lucien turned away immediately.
They moved fast.
Too fast.
That meant someone had been waiting for an excuse.
He adjusted his route, heading deeper into unclaimed territory.
Behind him, bells began to ring.
Far away, within the walls of a fortified cathedral, a man in white robes studied a crystal projection.
The image showed the ruined road.
The destroyed convoy.
The absence of a body.
"Survivor confirmed," a priest reported.
The man smiled faintly.
"Good," he said. "Begin Phase Two."
Lucien Veyr did not know his name yet.
But the world had begun to hunt him in earnest.
And luck—cruel, relentless luck—had decided this was only the beginning.